


Sweet

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slice of Life, i guess, idfk, with a side of bittersweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 15:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12707994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: “Sam.”That’s all Dean says. He has a lot of ways of saying his brother’s name, and it’s easier and simpler than all the things he’s no good at saying. He doesn’t agree with Sam, he doesn’t want to fight, he’s sorry, he misses mom too, he knows he fucked up in a lot of ways but he doesn’t have a clue where to start to fix it.





	Sweet

Dean snorts awake in a puddle of his own drool with a crick in his neck, one arm folded under his head on the library table. He scrubs a hand over his mouth and looks around before yawning. The laptop he had been working is moved away and closed, Sam nowhere to be seen. His nose tickles with the smell of something spicy and sweet in the air.

Standing, Dean rolls his shoulder, hearing his joints pop. Getting old sucks. He’s still wearing his boots, ready to go. He’s not really sure where, or why, but whatever it doesn’t matter. You’ve got to be ready for anything with the spawn of Satan living under your roof.

Rubbing crusted drool from the corner of his mouth, days worth of stubble across his jaw, Dean checks out the war-room, nothing, checks out Jack’s bedroom, nothing, and finds Sam in the kitchen making something on the stove.

Jack sits hunched over and looking comfortable at one of the chairs at the table. His back straightens when he senses Dean at the door, head cocking just a little.

“Hey,” Dean says.

Sam turns away from the stove, stirring something in a pot. “Hey.”

“Hello.” Jack says.

Dean ignores him.

Shuffling over to the stove, Dean peers at what Sam’s got going on.

“The fuck are you cooking, is that potpourri in there?”

Sam jostles him with a shoulder. “What? No. I’m making cider, that’s a cinnamon stick and some star anise.”

“Smells good,” Dean mumbles, begrudgingly. “It got any alcohol in it?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “No. We went on a supply run, I got some Halloween stuff that was on sale, picked up some candy for you.”

Gesturing to the table, where Jack sits, Sam gives a tight smile and turns back to stirring his potpourri.

There’s empty wrappers in a pile next to Jack’s elbow, some weird construction in front of him like a house of cards, only flimsy and sad made out of crinkled wrappers. Kid must be climbing the walls with boredom. Too bad. Dean goes to the table, sits down hard enough to blow the little house of trash over, and reaches to swipe a snickers for himself.

Jack frowns at his toppled construction, then starts building again.

Sam clatters a few mugs around and soon he’s standing next to Jack, putting a big hand on his shoulder, smiling at him, offer him a cup.

“Here, why don’t you go watch a movie, I need to talk to Dean.”

Nodding, Jack takes the cup solemnly and leaves them in quiet.

Putting two mugs on the table, those little white ones that don’t hold much, Sam pours Dean a cup that’s half full, and then a full one for himself. He moves around, brings back a whiskey bottle and tops Dean off.

Instead of sitting at the table across from Dean, Sam sits next to him.

Dean eats his candy, blows at the steam curling up from the drink Sam made him, takes a sip. It’s strong with whiskey, spiced with whatever the fuck potpourri Sam put it in, and sweet with apples.

“S’not bad,” Dean concedes with a shrug.

Sam hums, sips his cider.

“You gonna have another heart to heart with me about the kid?” Dean asks

He swipes a hand through the mess left on the table.

“Think I’ve already said what I need to,” Sam curls over his mug, hands folded around it, head dropped, “Guess I just need to give it time to sink in.”

“Sam.”

That’s all Dean says. He has a lot of ways of saying his brother’s name, and it’s easier and simpler than all the things he’s no good at saying. He doesn’t agree with Sam, he doesn’t want to fight, he’s sorry, he misses mom too, he knows he fucked up in a lot of ways but he doesn’t have a clue where to start to fix it.

He takes a sip of his cider.

“This is good,” he tells Sam, an offered truce, “Sweet.”

“Yeah.”

Sitting up straighter, Sam angles towards him, leans forward and rests his forehead against Dean’s. The smell of spices is heady, it’s warm in the kitchen, and Dean leans just so, lays a hand against the small of Sam’s broad back.

“I miss you,” is the most Sam can get out.

Dean tips his head, presses a kiss to his brother’s lips. It’s too much, too much left unspoken, left broken, left to heal crooked and he can’t.

Pulling back, Dean swipes a hand across his mouth, stands up with his mug.

“Thanks,” is the best he can say, before he swipes the rest of the whiskey and calmly makes his way to the seclusion of his room.


End file.
